The "Passport Bro" and The "Flight-Risk Fem."

The plane touched down through a froth of white clouds, kissed golden by the sun, and into the sea.

Directly into the sea.

For a moment, Arthur stared out of his ovular window convinced the pilot had made some catastrophic error. Water lapped the horizon in every direction, shimmering beneath the morning sky. The island appeared suddenly, taking shape in the blue. Like it had been hiding there until they ventured close enough.

Saint Corbelle

Terraced cliffs. White stone buildings. Red-tiled roofs stacked to the hillsides. Marina harbors filled with gleaming ships. Green everywhere. Palm trees swaying beside cathedral spires and mirrored high-rises.

Arthur adjusted the cuffs of his linen shirt. He breathed it in. Aroma.

Vacation. Reset. Research. Content. Maybe more.

The online forums had painted Saint Corbelle as paradise. Stable economy. Beautiful women. Traditional social values. "A place where relationships still make sense." The phrase that called all relationship-weary souls to the island's shores.

Arthur shook the stagnant energy from his shoulders as the passengers rose around him.

Three sharply dressed women in tailored navy suits stood in the aisle nearby discussing financial reports. In great detail. One of them held a sleeping baby against her shoulder while scrolling through market reports on a tablet.

Behind Arthur, two men compared moisturizer brands.

"...I"m telling you the sea-salt ruined my under-eyes."

"You're using too much. Julian made the same mistake after the twins."

The airport terminal looked less built for function and more like an architectural masterpiece. White marble floors. Hanging gardens suspended from curved ceilings. Sunlight poured through vaulted glass panels in warm geometric spears.

Everything gleamed.

Arthur traveled light. A red JanSport was his only burden.

Near customs, a massive gold sculpture dominated the central hall.

A woman stood atop the shoulders of four kneeling men, one hand raised toward the horizon.

Beneath it, engraved in French.

À travers elle, nous perdurons. / Through her, we endure

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

A woman stood in line holding a passport between elegant fingers. Mid-thirties maybe. Dark curls pinned loosely back. White blouse, slate-gray trousers, and a gold watch. A pleasant face with the glossy smoothness of composure.

She noticed his expression immediately. "Or alarming," she added.

Arthur laughed politely. "I was just trying to figure out if that's symbolic or literal."

"Both." She extended a hand. "Naomi Quinn."

Her accent was American.

Arthur shook. "Arthur Ames."

"First time in Saint Corbelle?"

"That obvious?"

"You've looked at three men carrying babies like possible suspects."

"Madame Quinn." One of the customs officers called.

The officer was male. Young. Groomed to perfection.

Naomi stepped forward and handed over her passport.

The officer smiled, delightfully. "Welcome home, Madame."

Home. The word fit her a bit loose. Arthur wondered what her story was. He watched the officer turn toward him next. He handed over his credentials.

"Purpose of visit, Monsieur Ames?"

"Travel journalism," Arthur answered smoothly. "Cultural exploration."

The officer nodded in kind. "Relationship status?"

Arthur frowned. "Excuse me?"

The officer repeated it casually. "Single, married, courted?"

"Single."

A female officer nearby glanced up briefly at that. Patting him down with her eyes. Evaluating.

The male officer stamped his passport. "Duration of stay?"

"Two weeks."

Naomi, now several feet ahead, spoke up so her voice carried. "That's what they all say."

Arthur smirked. "Is that what you said?"

"Seven years ago."

Outside the terminal, Saint Corbelle unfolded in vibrant, living color.

Women moved through the streets with strong presence. They were everywhere. Hard-hat-wearing construction crews. Transit officers. Luxury drivers. Business executives. Harbor officials.

Arthur couldn't help but notice the men seemed more concerned with nurturing. More supportive in role.

Clothes, more style, less function. Gentler posture. More expressive. Less guarded.

A man in cream slacks stood outside a cafe soothing a baby on his hip while speaking to two women in business attire. Another adjusted fresh flowers at a restaurant entrance.

Arthur felt something uncomfortable turning in his core. As though his inner compass had lost its north. Spinning out.

Naomi noticed him taking it all in. "You look dizzy."

"I'm acclimating."

"That's a prettier word for it."

"And what word would you use?"

Naomi slipped on dark sunglasses as her driver pulled up. "Grieving."

She opened the door and turned toward Arthur. A hand gesturing toward the cab.

"Are you asking?"

"I'm offering."

................................

A woman in a heather gray suit directed harbor traffic from a tower overlooking the marina. Another leaned against a motorcycle outside a café unapologetically checking out two sharply dressed men as they walked by.

Arthur watched it all through the car window.

Naomi watched him watching it. "You look like you're trying to fix a Rubik's Cube."

"I'm observing my surroundings."

"Mm." She crossed her legs. "You're judging your surroundings."

Saint Corbelle swiped by in white stone and flowering balconies. Street musicians played beneath awnings striped in coral and gold. The blue ocean splashed between buildings like liquid sky.

Everything looked exquisite.

The car stopped outside an open air restaurant overlooking the water.

A polished brass sign read:

La Maison des Marées

The female driver opened the door.

Arthur stepped out and paused.

The place was beautiful in a way that almost felt dreamy. Linen curtains moving softly in the sea breeze. Olive trees wrapped in hanging lights. Conversations floating beneath low jazz and distant waves.

Arthur watched the behavior and demeanor of the men. They seemed more...animated. But even that wasn't the word. Performative? Open. Vulnerable.

The hostess approached. A tall woman in a black suit. Gold earrings.

She smiled warmly at Naomi first. "Madame Quinn. Welcome back."

"Good to see you, Camila."

"And your guest?"

"Arthur Ames."

The host tipped her head. "First time in Saint Corbelle, Monsieur Ames?"

"Good guess. I must look how I feel."

"A little." She turned to Naomi and grinned.

Arthur heard Naomi smother a laugh. They were led to a table overlooking the sea. As they passed through the restaurant, Arthur noticed something else. The women seemed to take up more space. Physically and conversationally. The men hovered.

Listening. Maneuvering around them. Like social housekeepers.

The dynamic unsettled Arthur because of how smoothly it functioned.

A male waiter approached. Choreographed etiquette. Pristine grace.

"Still water or sparkling, Madame Quinn?"

"Sparkling."

"And for monsieur?"

"Same."

The waiter nodded, then looked directly at Arthur.

"That color suits you beautifully, monsieur. Warm tones work well against your complexion."

Arthur didn't know what to do with the attention. It was foreign. Supernatural even. The sincerity made it somehow...suspicious. It was like receiving an award you didn't prepare a speech for.

"...Thank you."

Naomi took a sip of water to hide her amusement.

"You people do this intentionally?"

"Do what?"

"The constant evaluation."

Naomi smiled. "Welcome to being perceived."

A woman passed their table then slowed. Mid-forties, elegant, confident. Her desire settled openly on Arthur. Feeling him with her intention. "To be rude for just a moment," she said to Naomi pleasantly, "where did you find him?"

Arthur nearly choked on his water.

"The airport. They release them into the wild now."

The woman laughed. "Dangerous policy." Her attention drifted back to Arthur. "You have beautiful shoulders." She then simply walked away.

"What the hell was that?"

Naomi unfolded her napkin delicately. "A compliment."

"She talked about me like I was a specimen."

"Yes."

"That's insane."

"Is it?" Naomi asked, rubbing the back of her hand.

Arthur parted his lips. He was supposed to say something. He should say something. Something needed to be said.

The waiter returned, placing menus in front of Naomi and Arthur.

Naomi ordered effortlessly in French. The waiter nodded appreciatively. "Excellent choice, Madame."

Arthur recognized maybe every fifth word. "I'll have what she's having."

"Very well, monsieur."

When he left, Arthur exhaled slowly. "Why do I feel like I'm on display?"

Naomi rested her chin lightly against her hand. "Same reason you look like a man hanging on to something. Makes you feel heavy. You could let it go and live a little but you believe it is a part of you."

"You really enjoy this."

"I enjoy watching identity fight for survival." She raises her right hand. "Guilty as charged."

Arthur zoomed in on her. "You've been here seven years?"

"Yes."

"And never left?"

"No."

"You don't miss home?"

Naomi's expression changed slightly. "Saint Corbelle became home."

Arthur could hear the repetition in the answer. The script. He went to apply pressure, but....

"So what sent you running with your passport in hand?"

Deep exhale. "The need to decompress. Incorporate new experiences. Escape the modern clout chase." Inhale. "I want to know if relationships are toxic everywhere or if the west is just third-world when it comes to love."

Naomi gave his words space. Room to land. "So tell me, Arthur. What do you do for a living?"

"I own an automotive restoration business."

Naomi nodded with genuine interest. "That's actually more interesting than I expected."

"Thank you, I think."

"I mean it. What kind of restorations?"

"Mostly American classics. Seventies and eighties models. Mechanical rebuilds. Bodywork. Custom interiors."

Naomi leaned forward, opened her posture. "Detailed. Decisive." She put her index finger down on the table. "Now what do you do...socially?"

Arthur was thrown off momentarily. His opening had more false starts than he intended. "Wh-I-I'm a simple guy. I like having a good time, with friends, the people I love."

"Oh my, Arthur." She placed a hand dramatically on her chest. "I can feel my legs parting, uncontrollably."

Arthur's laugh was more of a huff. He felt insulted. And shocked. By his own shock. "You're...unbelievable."

"I'm observant, Arthur." Naomi gestured an open hand toward him. "Most men think honesty is a personality."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Naomi leaned forward. "You're a generalist in a climate more opportune for specialists." She dismisses his bruised confusion. "You own a business, yes?"

"Yes."

"If a client walked into your shop and asked what made your restorations special, would you tell them you're just a simple guy who likes having a good time?"

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because relationships aren't sales."

Naomi gave him a long look. "Aren't they?"

Arthur frowned. "No."

"You market yourself constantly. Everyone does." She took a sip of sparkling water. "Your clothes. Your posture, confidence, humor, emotional intelligence, ambition, interests."

"When you put it that way, it sounds exhausting."

"It is." Naomi poured them both more water. "Women have spent decades being told they need to be interesting to deserve attention. Suddenly men are expected to develop personalities beyond 'loyal and employed' and it becomes the crisis of the ages."

Arthur leaned back slowly. "You people treat dating like corporate recruitment."

"And you treat emotional availability like military service."

Arthur took a breath through his nose. "See? Everything's a performance with you."

Naomi's eyes narrowed. "Everything is communication."

Arthur held her gaze. "And for someone so emotionally evolved, you're still single. Aren't you?"

The air changed. Like a sunny sky turned overcast. The ocean churned quietly against the cliffs below them.

Naomi smile was a thin crease. "Now you want to get personal."

"It was an observation."

Naomi's smile remained, but the warmth had left it.

Arthur recognized the change. He had seen it before in customers who realized a beautiful old car had more rust beneath the frame than the photographs suggested.

"Isn't that what you do?" he asked. "Observe?"

"I do try."

For a time, Naomi said nothing.

The waiter returned with their food, interrupting the table with silver, steam, citrus, and ceremony. Grilled fish with jeweled herbs. Bread still warm enough to tear apart in delicate whispers. A small dish of olives. Butter folded with sea salt.

The waiter placed Naomi's plate first. Then Arthur's.

"Bon appétit."

Arthur waited until he left.

Naomi picked up her fork. "Are you proud of that?"

"Of what?"

"Finding the nearest mailbox and kicking it."

Arthur looked at her. "You opened mine first."

"Yes," she said. "But I opened it gently and I didn't disturb anything."

"Only because you weren't interested in anything that wasn't first class."

That one almost scored. A smirk of amusement wrinkled the corner of her mouth. Gone fast.

Naomi cut into her fish. "You think being single is an indictment."

"I think when someone talks like they've solved the equation of human connection, it's fair to ask why they sleep alone."

"Poetic," she said flatly. "Did you workshop that on the plane?"

Arthur leaned as if dodging. "I'm just saying maybe you're better at evaluating people than staying with them."

Naomi paused with the fork halfway to her mouth.

Around them, La Maison des Marées chattered. The sea breathed calm against the cliffs. Laughter settled.

Naomi sat her fork down. "Do you know why men like you say things like that?"

"Men like me?"

"Yes."

Author flashed a bracing smile. "I've been categorized."

"Repeatedly, I imagine."

"Go on, then."

Naomi folded her hands beneath her chin. "Because it comforts you to know a woman alone must have failed at intimacy. It means if she doesn't choose you, then she must be damaged. Or she's too picky. Or she's too proud. She's too wounded. Too impossible."

Arthur glared. "That's not what I said."

"It was right in front of you. You were just waiting for the right moment to grab it."

"And what about you? What did you grab? That I'm boring. I don't know how to sell myself."

"You don't."

"Maybe I don't want to be sold."

Naomi's eyes softened. With pity. "Everyone wants to be chosen Arthur. The showroom is full and love is lonely and tired of waiting."

He looked away. Out beyond the railing, a white boat crossed the bay, its sail bright against the water. The harbor below glittered with money, sun, history, machinery. Saint Corbelle, fragrant and strange. Beauty and...something else.

When Arthur looked back, Naomi was eating again. Conversation over. Just like that. He knew a dismissal when he saw one. For several minutes they ate in a polite quiet that felt more and more like a gag order. Both refusing to break the unspoken terms.

Before long, the bill arrived. Naomi took it before the waiter had fully set it down.

Arthur reached for his wallet. "I've got it."

"No," Naomi said.

"I said I've got it."

"And I heard you." Her card was already between her fingers.

Arthur stared.

Naomi handed it to the waiter without looking away from him.

"You invited me to lunch," Arthur said.

"I rescued you from airport psychosis. Different service."

"I can pay for my own meal."

"I know."

"Then why are you doing this?"

The waiter vanished with her card. Naomi took a sip of water. "Because I invited you."

Arthur gave a low laugh and looked toward the sea. "Of course."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, please." She folded her arms. "Share with the class."

"You think paying gives you control."

"And you think paying makes you a man."

"It's called manners."

"It's hidden authoritarianism wearing a dinner jacket."

Arthur jabbed a finger at her. "There it is."

"There what is?"

"You can't just let a thing be a thing."

Naomi went to speak, then looked off. As if something had tapped her shoulder. The waiter returned. She signed. The moment was gone.

Outside, the afternoon had warmed. The stone streets of Saint Corbelle were loud and busy, lined with shops, cafés, flower stalls, and shaded colonnades. Women in tailored attire moved in pairs, talking business. Men carried market bags, flowers, children, portfolios, instrument cases. To them, everything was as it should. To Arthur, he was upside-down.

Naomi put on her sunglasses. "I should leave you to your cultural exploration."

Arthur slid his hands into his pockets. "That's probably for the best."

"Probably."

Neither moved.

A horse-drawn carriage passed carrying two elderly women and a young man in a pale blue shirt who motioned at someone across the square. He was handsome in a youthfully luminous way. Hair tied back. Expecting to be seen. Arthur watched a woman on the sidewalk turn to admire him. The boy bowed.

Arthur looked away.

"Still grieving?"

"I'm adjusting."

"How heroic."

Arthur half-faced her. "You know, for someone who claims to be so enlightened, you're pretty committed to being unbearable."

"For someone who claims to be simple, you're a remarkably expensive date."

He laughed. This time, so did she. It surprised them both. The laughter lasted only a moment, but it loosened something. Releasing trapped air.

Naomi looked down the street, then toward Arthur again. "Would you like to argue for a little longer?"

Arthur took a moment in thought. But not because he needed to. Something in him had already decided to walk her direction. Strange to him. Newly forming. What was resisting was something he didn't pack, but it followed him anyway. Lodged in a familiar pattern. Only in this moment, did it fall into question. Only now did it look like a saboteur.

He stepped forward. "Absolutely."

"There's something nearby you should see."

"That sounds ominous."

"It's educational. A social exhibition."

"A what?"

"A partnership exhibition."

Arthur gave her a look.

She smiled back.

Then he saw the signs.

HUSBANDRY, JOURNEY & SEMINAR

"Husbandry?"

"It doesn't mean what you think it means."

"It absolutely means what I think it means. That's a husband market."

"That's a deeply offensive oversimplification."

"It's a husband market."

"It's a networking event."

"For husbands."

"For potential husbands."

"Exactly!"